Sober Scroogy

So, you guys, I gave up drinking in 2014.

I have not entirely decided what that means yet.

Have I given it up forever or just for a while?  Given up drinking at home or drinking socially as well?  Will I still drink on special occasions? 

I dunno.

I do know that my skin looks better, and my head feels much less like lead in the mornings.

I was a 4 to 5 glass of wine a night drinker for quite a while there. 

(Pause for gasps and tsk-tsk-ing)

Ya done?  Ya sure?


Look, okay, wine drinking is to moms of young children what sleep and personal space are to non-parent types. For realz.  (Also, just so you know, I don’t talk like that in real life.  But for some reason my blogging and texting voice does.  Hmm.)

I don’t think I have a drinking problem, not really.  I just think I was relying too hard on my Fruity Red Sangria and less on my own spirit and perseverance. 

So.  Yeah.

But I’m finding it’s really hard to watch Cougar Town or Mob Wives without wine, Peeps.  Jus’ sayin’.


My 40th Year

And so it begins. 

I have crossed the threshold.  Had my last “Thirtysomething” birthday.

I’m staring 40 in the face.

And, ya know what, Peeps?  I’m kinda thrilled about it.

Bewildered, sure.

I mean, I feel like the 90s just ended.  I can remember the exact moment I turned 21.  I still really love Smashing Pumpkins.  And I sorta wish that Grunge fashion would make a comeback because corduroys and flannel are super comfy.

How did these years go by so fast?


Still, I am a wife, a mommy, a full-fledged grown up.  Or so I’m told. 

I got a fit-bit for my birthday and I was just as excited about that as I was the year I got New Kids on the Block tickets.

Times have changed.

Thank goodness!

I think my 40s are gonna be my time.

My time to feel at home in my own skin.  To make healthy choices.  To prioritize and enjoy. 

I’m looking forward to it.  I already feel this sort of anticipatory tingle.

It’s going to be amazing.

So, this year, my 40th one, will be one of sorting and planning and reflecting. 

There is work to be done, you guys!

Twinkle Foes

Lala and Loopsy have begun the long and sure process of growing up, up and away from me.

And I feel more protective of them than ever.

The second week of school, Lala comes home and tells me she hates her new school shoes (a cute, wardrobe-staple-worthy, pair of dark brown mary janes).

I asked her why and she said that she saw a girl on the playground with those really sparkly shoes with the fun shoelaces (I knew right away she meant those god-forsaken Sketchers Twinkle Toes.  I hate them.)  

Lala told the girl she liked her sparkly shoes and the girl looked at my daughter’s mary janes and said, “Yeah, well, your shoes are like, um…”  And then walked away.

?????   I mean.  ????

5 year olds.  These are 5 year olds.  

My first instinct was to tell Lala what I really think of Twinkle Toes and all that gaudy sparkly nonsense that adorns all little girl clothes these days.  Then I wanted to tell her that the little girl was just mean and petty and she should be glad to know what kind of character she is now before she gets closer and gets more hurt.  Then, well, then I just wanted to go out and buy ever style of those goddamned shoes in size 11 and a half that exist so that my kid wouldn’t feel left out.

(I didn’t do any of those things though, I just helped Lala understand that it’s okay to let someone know that they hurt her feelings and that they can move on and still play together.  Everyone has different shoes.)


Who knew that I’d still be succumbing to peer pressure at the age of 38?  All because of Kindergarten footwear.

This is exhausting already.


Pillow Talk and the Modern Marriage (well, My Modern Marriage, anyway)

Last Saturday morning, the hubs and I were relaxing in bed, putting off actually getting up to make breakfast for the twins, and chatting.  As marrieds do…

I rolled towards him and started rubbing his shoulder.

Hubs:  Why are your hands so hot?

Me: (pulling my hand away) I don’t know.

Hubs: I didn’t say you have to stop!

Me: (resuming running my hand on his shoulder)

Hubs: I got something a little lower you can rub!

Me: (rolling back towards the wall with a sigh)

Hubs: What?  (farts loudly)

Me: Nice…  that sounded like the last of the mustard bottle.  Did you get any on ya?

Hubs: (laughing)  That was my dick!

Me: (laughing)  What????  

Hubs:  Why can vaginas fart, but not dicks?

Me: I’m glad they don’t because men would be farting out their dicks ALL the time on purpose.  It would be chaos.

Hubs: I wish I could make mine whistle.

Me: (laughing harder)  Whistle?  Oh. My. God.

Hubs: (whistles tune of “If I Only Had a Brain” from The Wizard of Oz)


This is true love, Peeps.  All you singles out there with all your romantic ideas of what marriage is like, You’re Welcome.



Purity, shmurity…

Yeah, Peeps, I know shmurity isn’t a word.  The spell check is hella pissed that I keep repeating it.  And also it doesn’t like hella…


Y’all know I’m a huge TV junkie and one of my guilty pleasures is Sister Wives on TLC.  I usually feel pretty positive and almost inspired by the family that the Browns are building, but then something happened a few episodes ago that made me all,  “Um…  Stuff it Browns!”

They are Fundamentalist Mormons, and since moving to Vegas, have no “church” community to call their own, so they have service in their homes.  (Maybe they always did this, I don’t know…)  Kody leads the service and the moms take turns giving a speech or testimony or whatevs.  In the episode in question, Robyn decided to share the story of the biggest mistake of her life.

I was all intrigued, you guys…  Like, what could it be???  Did she shoplift?  Did she cheat on her taxes?  Did commit a hit and run?


She “gave” her “purity” to someone before marriage, and this “surrendering” of her “virtue” resulted in a pregnancy and a decision to marry the “wrong” man.


Look, um, *sigh again*, um…  What?

There are just so many issues I have with this.

Firstly, she said this speech IN FRONT of the child in question as well as her other two kids who share that same father.

I saw the sadness in her daughter’s eyes.  I couldn’t believe that she just kept going on and on about it.

I am a grown woman, and I know the regret of wasting time trying to make a failing relationship work.  I know that sometimes children are involved and that makes the whole situation tougher.  But, I can’t imagine writing off the conception of any of my kids as a mistake.  I just can’t.

My parents divorced when I was 10 or so and my mother always said that she never regretted marrying my dad because she was able to have my brother and me.  She said that she’d never do anything different.  I know that marriage caused her a lot of heartache, but I also know that she loves us and values the opportunity to have brought us into this world.  I also know that despite the bad times, there was a lot of love between my parents, and my brother and I were conceived by two people who loved each other and wanted to be together.

I feel that Robyn discounting her relationship with her ex as a mistake just invalidates any joy or pride that ever existed in that previous family.  It’s sad.  So sad.  Watching that look in Robyn’s daughter’s eyes was just- ugh- gut wrenching.

I feel like Robyn’s been so “shamed” by the Fundamentalist ideals of one true, spiritual marriage that she is willing to discount any love or affection that occurred before she married Kody.  It’s sad, and short-sighted, and ludicrous.

Secondly, you guys, let’s discuss the idea of “giving” or “surrendering” your body to another person.

Well, hell…  I was brought up, or led by society, to view my virginity as a virtue as well.  To think that it was something to hoard or protect and that the longer I did so, the happier or safer I would be.  For a long time, I assumed that I would wait until marriage.

Then, a funny thing happened.  In college, long after my peers had already done so, I started a physical relationship with someone.  Kissing, making out, bumping and grinding…  All the fun stuff.  Feelings and sensations were awakened and suddenly my body and soul were really alive.  Really feeling.  And I was saddled with a philosophical dilemma.  What did it mean that I had this urge to have sex with someone I had no intention of marrying?

I was hesitant to “go all the way” and I said as much to my boyfriend.  He was kind of a jerk about it, actually, and said something like, “Don’t flatter yourself.”  And I remember being really hurt, and super frustrated that he assumed that I meant I was reluctant to “grant” him with the “prize” of my virginity.  What I meant was, I didn’t know how to handle these new desires and how they didn’t mesh with my old ideals.  I wasn’t sure what it meant.

Anyway, we didn’t talk for a while.  And during that time, I found that I missed that intimacy, and I missed being a sexual being, and that I was okay with that.  I felt that I wasn’t “losing” anything.  I felt that I was only gaining.

So, yeah, I soon forgave him and we finally did it.  A lot.  And I don’t regret it for a second.  Nor do I regret sleeping with any of the other guys I’ve slept with.  (Well, except for one, but that’s a whole other story for another time.)

Let’s move on to the word “purity”, shall we?

I will say that I don’t feel that my soul has become any less pure than it was when I was a virgin, and I’m still sure of that after sharing my sexuality with 8 lovers.  Even though I regret one of them (still not saying which), I don’t feel that encounter made me less pure or good.

Sex isn’t dirty.  It isn’t damning or darkening.  Sex is, or should be, lovely.  It’s a physical connection and expression of your humanity, your body and soul.  It’s fun, it’s kinky sometimes, romantic other times, and good.  As long as two willing partners are participating safely and willingly, it’s an amazing part of being human.

If sex makes you feel impure, you’re doing it wrong.  Look inside and make sure it’s what you really desire and that it enhances you.  Like healthy food & drink, like exercise, a good night’s sleep, meditation or prayer, sex should help you.  Never hurt you.

I hope that I can somehow pass this idea onto my daughters.  That their bodies are precious, and wonderous, and sharing them with the person of their choice, when they are ready and safe and prepared, will be marvelous.

If I can’t, then THAT would be MY biggest mistake of my life.  😉  Smurity…

Analyze This

Since my post yesterday, and after reading the link in its comments, I’ve been thinking of how to describe, for myself, what my mental status is like.

Depression seems so black and white.

Anxiety seems so alarming.

Let’s see…

I am the kind of person who is unable to hear or remember or absorb much of anything other than the negative comments made to me, about me, within me.  I will obsess for weeks over a grammar flub or a misplaced giggle during someone’s venting.  I can’t turn that off.

So, then I try to turn it out.  I focus negativity on those around me, people on the road, at the grocery store, my husband, my kids.  But that just makes me feel even more like a horrible person, and so I just retreat altogether.

Through reading, writing, drinking, watching TV or movies, sleeping, eating…  Anything that will blank out my own thoughts and feelings.  I’ve always had an elaborate fantasy life (and I don’t mean that I play RPGs or that I have a closet full of fetish gear).  I mean that since I was a little kid with imaginary friends, I’ve been taking day dreaming to an art form.

I think that’s what most writers do, and it makes so much sense to me that so many writers suffer depression as well.  It’s escapism. 

This doesn’t mean that I don’t find enjoyment in those things, because of course I do.  This doesn’t mean that I don’t put on my best Scroogy Face and interact when necessary, even doing a fairly passable job at socializing.

It’s just a shell.  An act.  Like I’m on autopilot.

Soon, I look around and realize it’s been a week since I’ve swept or vacuumed and my laundry remains unfolded in the basket and my kids are running rampant and my husband barely says a word to me.

I realize that I haven’t been there. 

That’s what I mean by dark, lost, shapeless.  Undefined. 


I know that this too shall pass, that there will be brighter days.

But in case yesterday’s post was less than clear, there ya go…



I’m tired

I’m tired of being…  of being…


I am tired of being…

Yes, that’s it, I guess.

I’m just tired of being.

No, I’m not suicidal (I’m WAY too nosy to kill myself).  I’m just not sure how to end that sentence appropriately.

My brain mind soul psyche sits ready to unleash a stream of vitriol to end that statement- words that feel right, but are just wrong.  I know LOGICALLY they are wrong.

Mental health is so puzzling.  I was feeling pretty good just this weekend.  And now, I feel so lost and dark and shapeless. 

Yeah, shapeless.  Undefined.

I’m tired of being undefined.


Mommy Finished

This past weekend was significant in Scroogyland, not just because it was Mother’s Day, but also because my daughters saw me cross the finish line of my first 5K.

It brings tears to my eyes to think of it, Peeps.

Me, Scroogy- far from athletic- finished a run.  (Well, more of a walk/jog- heavy on the walk, but still…)

Lala and Loopsy waited for me, with their grandparents and their Daddy, at the finish of Saturday’s Color Run here in Baltimore.

They witnessed their Mom -television addict, usually found reading novel after novel on the couch or spending hours on the computer writing or playing Candy Crush- finish something she’d set out to do last summer.  Mommy got ready for, and ultimately finished, a 5K.

Without having a heart attack or passing out or spraining anything.

I’ll never forget how proud I felt when I saw them and heard them calling for me as I jogged under the inflatable Finish arch, covered in layers of colored dust, sweaty, and a little red in the face. 

Girls, if you read this one day, this is what I want you to remember:

Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t or that you shouldn’t.  Not even yourselves.

Don’t let people judge you for your size or your looks or your past.  Not even that voice in your head.

If you work hard, if you stick to anything, you can finish what you start.  You can do or be anything.  You can beat any odds, meet any goals you set for yourself.

I love you girls.  This 5K was for you.

The next one is for me.



6 years?

Today is the 6th anniversary of our wedding.  Aww, you guys…

At the reception, my Matron of Honor (Bestie), said that she hoped that our wedding day would be the day we looked back on in our marriage as the day we loved each other the least, that our love would grow with each day.


Look, I love Hubby today more than I loved him on April 28, 2007, for sure.  No doubt.


I mean…

Marriage is hella complex, Peeps.

Hubby and I were thrown into a bunch of HUGE life changes right away- he moved from NYC to Baltimore, so we went from Long Distance to Live-Ins, his parents followed soon after (in their own apt), we got married, got pregnant, his mom was diagnosed with cancer, we found out we were having twins, his mom got sicker and sicker, we started looking for a house, I was put on bedrest due to an “irritable uterus”, his mom passed, the twins were born, we moved into a house, I quit my job to be a stay at home mom, then his dad passed…

Seriously, we went through 10 or 15 years worth of life changes in two or three years.  It was, shall we say, taxing.

Taxing on us as individuals, and taxing on our marriage.

There were days when I considered packing my bags and moving to DE with Bestie.  Sometimes I considered bringing the twincesses too.  (bah dum dum…)

Sometimes I looked at Hubby as the enemy and/or felt that he considered me as such.

But we never gave up.  Never.

I truly believe that a marriage has its ebbs and flows.  A marriage is a relationship where you fall in and out of love with the same person for the rest of your life.  Some days are bliss, some are hell, but they are all yours.

Hubby…  My true love.  My sweet babu…

I can’t wait to spend the next 60+ years falling in love with you over and over…

The Summer Camp Conundrum

Apparently, Peeps, I have been hindering the development of my children and giving into my own social anxieties by not enrolling my five year olds in multiple activities.  Meh.

Okay, so my therapist didn’t say those exact words, but that’s how my Mommy brain translated them when she suggested it would benefit me and my kids if I signed them up for summer camps before sending them off to the big bad world of Full Day Kindergarten this fall.

So, I started the dreaded internet search for proper programs for Lala and Loopsy.  What the fudge, you guys?  The mind, it does a-wobble….

Why are day camps so expensive?  Or is $250 to $350 per week normal?  For half days?  I mean…  Ugh.  Hubby is not going to be pleased about this.  Neither are my plans for us to either join a pool or take a real week long vacation this summer. 

Anyway, besides the cost, there’s the whole decision of what kind of camp to choose.  I’m looking primarily at an Art Camp and a Gymnastics Camp.  My little twincesses are very crafty and tumbly.  So, that should be a perfect fit, right?  Gah, I dunno.  Should I be more focusing on music or sports?  Would those skills prepare them better for school?  I mean, I know it’s just a week or two and it’s just camp.  Why do I make these decision so much harder than they need to be?

Then I start to think, “Hey, Scroogy, the kids will be away for 3 whole hours for 5 straight days!  You can get so much done!”

Then I feel all Mommy guilty and the “what-ifs” break out… 

What if Lala has one of her infamous melt-downs and I’m at Planet Fitness without my phone?

What if Loopsy shows how she inherited her grace from her Mommy and falls head first off the balance beam?

What if one twin makes a ton of friends and they ignore her sister?

What if either of them get an attack of explosive diarrhea?


Me thinks my therapist is on to something here…

Abrakadoodle and Little Gym…  here come the Scroogy twins…  You have been warned.

(about me, that is…)